Shoot
by Frisky Wallabee
Summary: Damn plotbunnies. AU story. First version got not found for some reason...slash ahead. Javid and Sprace mostly with other couples added in. Rated for slash, language, sexual content, substance abuse, self abuse, implied incest and death
1. Spot

The warehouse seemed like an odd place for there to be a photo shoot. It was gray and nondescript with boarded up and broken windows. It seemed almost like a haunted house against the smoggy-black sky and the yellow light of the streetlights. Spot Conlon stubbed out his cigarette and started to walk into the door. He hated this. He hated this modeling thing more than anything. Especially the shady jobs like this one which was all he could get these days. He was too young-looking for adult shoots and too adult-looking for child shoots. This shoot was a bit different from the others. This was a new agency that he was forced to join.

One look inside and he knew this would be nothing like the ads he posed for when he was little. Naked boys with their arms bound to each other posed on crates and tarps. Two boys barely older than him were photographing them and a fat, greasy man with gold rings on every one of his fingers seemed to be in charge. The center of all of the shoots was two boys with their wrists bound and bound by the waist to each other looking out blankly at the camera. One was a pale, curly-haired boy with blue eyes and the other with straight hair that fell to the middle of his neck and brown eyes with the kind of mouth that curled up a little on the edges. Their eyes had a dead, not-there look to them. Spot knew the look and knew he had it too. The other models did as well. The blue eyes of the blonde model combing his hair held the look…at least one did. His right eye was clear but the left one was clouded and glazed over. He was naked and getting ready to pose with a built boy with curly hair and an upturned nose. The fat man noticed Spot.

"You," he said. "You Conlon?"

"Yeah," Spot said. "Although I prefer—"

"I don't care what you prefer. Strip down, do what you have to do, and go find Race," he said before turning back to the two boys in the center. "Kelly, turn your head. You're too intense head-on!"

The straight-haired boy did as he was told and looked more at the pale boy than at the camera. Spot pulled his clothes off without any shame. He was getting a little used to these except this was the first time he would be fully naked. Still, compared to upturned-nose and the other one—Kelly, was it?—he felt tiny and underdeveloped. Not that he was going to let it show. He sat next to the blonde boy to put on makeup.

"Hi," he said, blinking at his reflection in the mirror.

He looked like an extra from _Village of the Damned_.

"Hey," Spot replied, putting on base.

"You'll get used to it," he said cryptically, groping with his left hand for an unlit cigarette.

The built boy pulled him up. "No time, Kid."

The blonde boy nodded and went off with him. Spot finished his makeup and stood, looking for the aforementioned "Race". He spotted the only boy sitting by himself and figured it was him. He walked by two bespectacled boys bound at the wrists and ankles and stretched over throw pillows. The blonde half of that shoot looked at him and Spot thought he saw almost a pleading look in his blue eyes.

"Hi," Race said to him.

He didn't look very much like a model. He was short and pale with a thick thatch of dark hair but there was something about his face that made you want to look at him.

"You Race?" Spot asked, sitting next to him.

"Yeah. Name's really Anthony but everyone calls me Racetrack," he said as the fat guy walked towards them, dragging the paler of the two camera boys with him. "Heya Weasel."

The fat man rolled his eyes and held up two, leopard print chords. Then he and Race were bound to each other around the upper legs and around their necks so their backs were pressed up against each other. Then they turned their heads so their cheeks pressed together so they looked at the camera. The camera boy was sneering from behind the enormous camera but when he moved it, Spot saw the same haunted look that the models had. Had he once had to lay naked and bound on the ground while someone took his picture? He cast a look at Racetrack although he could only see the side of his face. He wondered if he felt anything when someone snapped his picture like Spot had in the beginning. When there was something to look forward to—like seeing his picture in a magazine. Now it was nothing. Just another thing where he was going to be put in some strange smut mag with the other boys.

After the shoot, the boy he had first seen—Kelly—and the pale boy came up to him.

"Hiya," he said.

"Hi," Spot replied. "Kelly, right?"

"Jack," he corrected. "And this is David. Wanna come out with us?"

Spot shrugged. He had nothing better to do. The paler boy, David evidently, popped some pills in his mouth and swallowed them with a swig of a bottle of water.

"You alright?" he asked, not really caring if he was.

David shrugged. "Are any of us?"

With that cryptic comment, he walked ahead. Near the front of the warehouse were picture that made what the rest of the boys were doing look like hopscotch. There was a girl in them too.

"David's sister, Sarah," Jack said. David didn't even look at the pictures. "She used to do the hardcore stuff with the brothers."

He pointed to the two camera boys.

"Used to?" Spot queried. "She quit?"

"She died," Jack said. "Heroin. It was for a shoot. She was supposed to be Sleeping Beauty who, instead of pricking her finger, pricked her arm on a heroin needle. She put in too much and died. It was an accident."

His eyes skirted quickly over to David's with that last comment. David shrugged again and started to walk away. Jack followed him. Spot figured they were hiding something. Not that he cared. He just decided to follow them anyway. Despite the pill-popping and mystique, they didn't seem that bad.

The club was where all of the male models seemed to be. At least, the ones from the bondage shoot today. No one was dancing, everyone just sat around, drinking. David popped another pill into his mouth and rested his head on Jack's shoulder. Jack put his arm around him and tried to reach for the bottle of pills but David gripped it tighter, his eyes suddenly wild as if he couldn't live without them.

"Where are you from, Spot?" the blonde boy—Kid or something—from the shoot asked.

"Brooklyn," Spot answered. "You all from Manhattan?"

"Pretty much," he replied. "Want me ta introduce you to the others?"

Spot shrugged, once again, not really caring.

"Wells, I'm Kid Blink…that's my stage name," he smiled widely which, for a moment, shattered the creepy-child image. "You know Jack and David…"

He then proceeded to fire off a barrage of other boys' names, mostly stage names or something—like Spot's own name—that obviously couldn't have been written on their birth certificates.

"Are a lot of the shoots like that?" Spot asked nonchalantly. He wasn't one to show that he was nervous.

"No," Jack answered.

Spot sighed inwardly in relief. However, he kept a look of bored indifference on face and nodded.

"Most are worse," David added darkly.


	2. David

David stared down at the numbers mocking him. Big, bold, red numbers all segmented and boxy just glaring at him. Taunting him. Treating him like the chocolate cakes and cheeseburgers he dreamed about. Mocking him. That number to the right of the decimal point especially steamed him. He had gained two-tenths of a pound. How? He hadn't been eating, he'd been running every day and popping diet pills…the water. It had to be the water he was drinking with the pills. Goddamn it. Now he had to stop drinking water. Or maybe it was toothpaste. Jack _had_ bought that vanilla mint stuff that tasted like minty frosting…it had to be it. Fucking Jack. David paused. That was it. _Fucking Jack_. An hour of sex burned three hundred and sixty calories. He could burn _off_ those two tenths. Then he'd be perfect. No, not perfect. Even without those two tenths, he was still a fucking pig. Ninety-four pounds? What _was_ that shit? Sarah could've lost that weight easily. He grabbed the bottle of Trimspa and stuffed six into his mouth, not taking them with water so they burned the second he swallowed them. He took four deep breaths and stepped off of the scale. He needed to find Jack. Like he needed to find him. David knew that he lay reclined on the bed in their lousy, one-and-a-half roomed apartment.

"Jack," he mewled from the doorway. "C'mere."

Jack looked up, surprised. Usually, he had to start all sexual acts. But David needed to ditch those two-tenths pronto. He got up and walked towards David, eyes questioning. He grabbed Jack roughly and pressed him against the wall, his mind swimming.

"Now," he commanded.

Jack smiled and kissed him. It wasn't a tender kiss. It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a let's-fuck-now-ask-questions-later kiss. A carnivorous kiss. Jack was almost inhaling his face. David felt his body weaken from more than the force of the kiss and felt his lips be forced back by Jack's tongue. They went to the bed and literally tore each other's clothes. David looked at the remains of his blue top as Jack sucked on his neck like a vampire. Oh well, he'd lose weight and not be able to wear that shirt. He smiled at the thought. He turned back to Jack who made the motion for him to flop onto his stomach. David shook his head. He didn't want that. He wanted plenty of fooling around—it probably burned even _more_ calories doing that—before the main event.

"Jack," he said coyly, in a voice not at all his own. "Let's wait for a bit."

Jack frowned. "Davey—"

David cut him off by lunging at him and sticking his tongue down his throat. He made sure to move his body a lot, positioning it in so many different shapes.

"Like the shoot," David explained, coming up from air. "Bound at the waist."

Jack just looked confused. David even had no idea what he meant but started to screw with him anyway, gripping his penis and kissing down his throat. Jack pushed his hand away.

"David," he looked even more confused. "What's going on? You take Viagra or somethin'?"

"I thought you'd want this," he lied.

"Yeah. Sex. Not this handjob shit," Jack said. "It just makes your hand hurt and our sheets all gross."

David put his hands behind his neck and brought Jack's head down to his, wanting to get things back on track. He wanted to burn those calories damn it.

"David," Jack tried once more. "This isn't you. What's going on?"

"Sex now, questions later," David replied.

He didn't expect Jack to be this hard to turn. After that statement, though, Jack got down to business. And he kept going down with business for three hours. David's body ached and his heart raced faster than it ever had. The two of them lay panting, their breath almost solid in the heavy air.

"What's…with…you…tonight?" Jack managed between pants.

David shrugged. He wasn't really listening. He was checking under the covers to examine his body. So goddamn bloated.

"Davey?"

David turned and smiled at Jack but his mind wasn't on him. He was calculating the calories. Let's see…an hour of sex burned three hundred and sixty calories. We just did it for three hours…three sixty times three is…one thousand eighty. That was almost what the average person ate in a day. David smiled again. Good-bye two-tenths.

"David?" Jack pushed a clammy hand onto his forehead. "You don't look so hot."

"Really?" his satisfaction quickly turned to panic.

Jack saw how disgusting he was. He was going to leave him because of it.

"Yeah. You look sick. Really skinny too," he observed.

"I'm fine," he replied. "I feel great."

"You don't _look_ great."

"I feel it," David assured him. "And tomorrow I'll be even better."


	3. Racetrack

Racetrack swiped a nervous hand over his forehead and inhaled hard on his cigarette, trying to get the last of it in one go. His body was filled with jittery nerves and his hands shook. It wasn't like the nerves he got when a race was almost over or when the score was close in Jai Alai—both of which that he bet on in the same building. It was the nerves high school boys got when a girl looked their way. Except it wasn't a girl for Racetrack. It was that new model. Spot. That shoot today, shit. He had almost gotten an erection with the feel of his body pressed against him. After they had left the club, the two decided to walk together. Needless to say, even seeing him only when punctured by the buzzing streetlights, Racetrack was feeling…dizzy.

"So," Spot started. "Are Jack and David, like, together?"

"Why? You like Jack?"

It was the obvious question for him to make. Almost all of the boys became enamored with Jack at one time or another. Racetrack had been one of them himself.

"What? No. I'm just wondering…"

Racetrack shrugged and flicked his cigarette into an alley. "Sort of. Like, they fuck and all that but they're not…_together_. Jack started just 'helping' David get over Sarah when she died."

"They were close?"

Racetrack paused a beat. "You have no idea."

Spot looked at him weirdly. Racetrack shrugged again.

"Meaning?"

"What's with the obsession with them?" he asked quickly, knowing David wouldn't appreciate it if he leaked too much.

Spot's eyes darted quickly from side to side. It was cute. But then he went back to the bored, indifferent, cold look he seemed to have shellacked on his face at all times.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I just thought that maybe I saw them on a shoot a long time ago…"

Racetrack knew it was a lie but he didn't press him. The only pressing he wanted to do was pressing Spot against the wall so he could do dirty things to his mouth. His mind swam at the thought.

"Are you, though?" he asked.

"Am I what?" Spot narrowed his eyes. "In love with Jack? I'm not. I just met him."

"No," Racetrack shook his head. "Are you gay?"

"I'm a model," Spot said by way of explanation.

"That a yes?" was there too much hope in his voice?

Spot smiled beatifically but it looked like a smirk.

"What's with the obsession?" he cooed, doing a paltry imitation of Race just seconds ago.

Racetrack laughed a little at his attempt. "That's sad."

Spot shrugged. "Whatever. Our whole lives are sad."

"Wow, way to ride the Depression Express."

He laughed but then his face grew solemn. "Think about it. Every week, we go to places like the warehouse and lose our dignities so some perverts can jerk off to pictures of boys in bondage."

"You just get used to it," Racetrack explained. "You get used to it and become so jaded that nothing they make you do can remove your dignity because it's been long gone and plastered in some rag."

"That's deep."

"That's life."

The two young men stopped and looked at each other under the glowing orange light of a streetlight.

"It's strange," Spot mused. "It's like, I met you a few hours ago and it's like we clicked. Like we're on the same page."

Yes, yes, fuck yes!

"Yeah," Racetrack said. "Weird."

Spot smirked. "Now, does that apply to you?"

Racetrack raised his eyebrows. "Meaning?"

"You know what I mean."

"That I'm gay?"

"Yeah."

Racetrack gave his own version of Spot's smirk. "I'm a model."

Spot laughed. "Nice. Very nice."

They resumed walking, not really going anywhere but both were thinking about what Race had said. He could tell by the look behind the expressionless—yet adorable—blue-gray eyes in Spot's head. Neither spoke as they did until they got to the staircase to the subway station.

"This is me," Spot said. "And thanks…I think."

Racetrack laughed. "Yeah. You too…I think."

Then, without thinking, he leaned forward and gave Spot a light-as-a-feather kiss on the lips. Spot touched his mouth as if he wasn't sure if it had even happened. Then he smirked again and went down into the station. Race didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing but the kiss made him feel better and forget about that jaded shit.


	4. Jack

Jack stamped hard on his cigarette and stared at its little corpse on the floor of their apartment. He sat on the window seat—read, wide ledge—and stared out at the city. Somewhere in the city, someone was howling at the moon. It was probably some insane homeless person, hopped up on acid and junk but he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the pane, wishing he was out in the fresh air. Somewhere out west like…New Mexico. Where was there in New Mexico? Albuquerque…that was where Bugs Bunny always made wrong turns. Santa Fe. Yeah. Him and David out there in the fresh hair and the sun and all of that space. He needed to get David away from the city. The scene was fucking them both up. David, especially. After Sarah died, he crashed and stopped eating. Jack had seen it as a coping method…until the pills came into the picture.

Jack glanced over at the bed where David lay curled up tightly in the blankets as if he were hiding like a little boy afraid of monsters to come creeping out from under the bed or out of the closets. Jack knew that there were no monsters in the apartment. At least, no real ones with claws and teeth and horns. There may be imaginary monsters with brown eyes and long brown hair—more like ghosts—that haunted blue-eyed boys and made them starve themselves. He remembered the night in that bed so long ago. Him, David and Sarah, locked up in a tight knot of naked limbs. Jack turned back to the window, pushing the memory away. But all of the other nights flooded into his mental eye like a low-budget porno flick. Jack rubbed his eyes tiredly. He didn't want to think about the past. That was the deal with the past. It had happened and nothing could change it. Dwelling and thinking about it just fucked you up more.

"Jack?" David rose up tiredly from the bed, eyes almost discernable in the dark.

He turned away from the window once more. "Hey, David. Go back to sleep."

He shook his head. "Why are you up?"

"Thinking," Jack shrugged.

"No, really," David smiled. "Why are you up?"

Even with the joke, David looked sick and tired and not at all like himself. Why couldn't they just get out of here? Away from ghost-monsters and the agency?

"Smoking," Jack indicated to the cigarette on the floor. "You need to get some sleep, Dave."

"I'm not tired," he replied like a little kid. "Besides, we don't have to go anywhere tomorrow. We can spend all day in bed."

He smiled again, this time it was coyly. He looked at the bed and then at Jack. Once again, this wasn't David. David never wanted to just fuck. He had been so reluctant that first night with the three of them. He had been so reluctant for any sex before and even more so afterwards. Jack always had to initiate and get far enough without any objections for it to happen.

"We have to go down to the agency," Jack explained. "Weasel wants to talk to us about hardcore again."

David's face darkened and he gripped the sheets.

"I'm not doing it," he practically spat.

"I know," Jack said. "But we have to tell the asshole that. Now, go back to sleep. We'll go out for lunch or something afterwards. You're getting too thin."

David ignored that comment and snailed up again in the sheets. Jack knew he should take his own advice and get some sleep but he was too nervous about David…as lame as that sounded. Part of him wanted to go into the bathroom, grab his diet pills and toss them right out of the window he was sitting by. Two things stopped him: 1) if David stopped taking those, he could move onto something worse and 2) those pills were pretty fucking expensive.

What Jack hated most about the agency—outside the obvious—was the fact that they had to walk by the pictures of Sarah when they came in. David always paused at the one…the _one_. The last one. The _Sleeping Beauty_ shoot. David paused and looked at her. In the photo, Sarah had already been dead before the picture had been taken. He glanced at the camera boys who were sitting on crates, smoking and obviously not wanting to be there at seven thirty in the morning. Jack knew why he was looking. The taller, older camera boy—Morris—he had been the one in the shoot with Sarah. The one who had to kiss her. The one who noticed that she was oddly cold and not breathing. If it had affected him at all, he never showed it. His personality—shitty, though it was—hadn't changed. But he and his brother quit the hardcore shit after it. David turned back to the picture and folded his hands as if he were praying. Jack put a brief arm around him and went to find Weasel so he could tell him, again, that they weren't going to do the hardcore shit. That was when he heard it.

"Awww, Davey's sad," a sneering voice cooed.

Jack turned and saw just what he expected: the other camera boy, Oscar, walking around David, taunting him. He held his, heavy, black and silver camera in his hands, casually tossing it back and forth so it swung on the strap around his neck. Despite the fact that his brother was worse, Morris never taunted David about Sarah. Maybe because of the fact that he was the one who found her. Oscar, however, hadn't even been at the agency that day. And he knew about the three of them. A dangerous combination.

"Tell me, Davey," he taunted. "Do you miss your sister? Or do you just miss fucking her?"

Jack opened his mouth to say something, fists already clenching, but David beat him to it.

"I don't know," he said coldly. "It can't be the latter because we already have that, don't we? With you fucking your brother."

That was when Oscar whipped the camera into his face. David went down like a sack of bricks. There was a cut on his face. But Oscar wasn't finished. He jumped on him and started beating him with his camera.

"Take it back! Take it back!" he screamed but David was out cold.

Jack was over there in a second, ripping him off of David and shoving him to the cement floor. By that time, Morris had come over and was pulling him to his feet. The camera was in shambles: the film had popped out and a corner was covered in David's blood. Still, he clutched it like a sword.

"I'll fucking kill you!" Oscar yelled at the top of his lungs, pointing at David. "I'll fucking kill you, you fucking kike!"

That tore it. Jack elbowed him painfully right under the ribs.

"Don't say things you can't take back," he seethed in his face.

"Fuck off," Oscar spat in his face before he was successfully dragged off.

Then Jack had David to take care of. Meaning, he had to take him to the hospital. The hospital where there were no diet pills, no shoots and no memories tied to a bed about something that shouldn't have happened, not once, but again and again.


	5. Blink

It was eerily cold as Blink walked down the sidewalk, treading over flattened newspapers and cigarette butts. Homeless people eyed him from the alleys and from storefronts. They knew him. Of course, they didn't know his name—stage or otherwise. They just knew him as that "blonde, junkie model boy" who spent his money from shoots on a syringe-full of smack. He touched the skin beneath his left eye, remembering that night when he first started and thought it was a smart idea to try to shoot up into his eye. Now he only saw half of a world. Maybe that was a good thing. Blink tucked his hands into his pockets and lowered his head in the cold. From what he had heard, David had had to be rushed to the hospital. Everyone was going down there. He wasn't. He needed time to think…or something.

"You look cold."

The voice startled Blink out of his reverie and he turned to see a silver car—real fancy—stopped next to him. The man poking his head out was one of those silver fox types. He was tanned with really white teeth and a great head of thick, white hair. Blink faked a smile. He hoped the guy wasn't confusing him with a callboy.

"I am," he replied.

"You look starved too. Do you want to something to eat? I have soup at my house."

The offer was brazen and uncalled for but Blink weighed his options. He could keep trudging up and down the sidewalks until he passed out from exhaustion on the street and was raped and murdered or try his chances with Silver Fox and maybe get a meal out of it. Besides, the guy was respectable-looking. Blink got in the car.

The guy's apartment was nice. It was a penthouse on Fifth Avenue filled with antiques and fancy art in mahogany from countries that Blink couldn't begin to start to try to pronounce, let alone spell. Blink had never been on Fifth Avenue and felt instantly inadequate the moment he stepped in.

"Rosie, my maid, is off for the night so I'll just go into the kitchen and make you some soup," the man smiled. "By the way, I'm Miles."

Blink smiled politely and took off his coat. He kept on the sweater he wore over his t-shirt. He didn't want Miles to see his track marks and kick him out, deeming a junkie like him unworthy of soup. He was about to mention something to start a conversation, when he noticed some non-fancy art on the walls. They looked like torn out sheets from magazines almost—all glossy and whatnot. Blink neared the wall and sucked in a deep breath. They pictures were of him. Mostly him and Mush, naked and bound together. Pressed up close and staring more at the camera than at each other. There were some of him only, stretched and languid-looking with his eyes looking dead and zombied out. Blink's body immediately tensed and he began to mentally kick himself.

"Are you surprised, Blink?" Miles stepped from the kitchen, soupless. "I've seen you. I see you every month. You've kept me warm on many a night."

"I, uh," Blink managed. "I thought…"

"What? That a rich gentleman was going to feed you and keep you warm and make you stop bruising up those pretty little arms? This isn't _Pretty Woman_," he grinned lasciviously. "Although you're certainly a step up from Julia Roberts."

He advanced towards Blink. Blink saw him go to the left and out of his line of sight. He was fast for an old guy. He felt the air get knocked out of him suddenly and he hit the couch, right under the pictures of himself and a frightening-looking, antique hook.

"You feel just how I thought," Miles purred.

"L-leave me alone!" Blink finally found his voice. "Get off of me!"

He saw a flash of metal and pictured a knife pressed to his throat. Pictured himself lying dead on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. This was how he was going to die. He was going to get killed by some pervert who got his kicks by looking at high-gloss pictures of him and jerking off.

The handcuffs were clicked onto his wrists and Miles flipped him over. With his arms above his head and clipped to the hook facing forward, his arms twisted painfully as he did so. Miles kept whispering into his ear as he did it too.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered hoarsely. "You feel so good in my arms. Almost like a kitten."

Blink kicked and screamed but it was no use. He was completely defenseless and had no use of his arms. He could only press his face into the leather of the couch and wait for it to be over.

Hours later, he was back on the street and back into the cold. His coat was up in the penthouse. He didn't want to go get it. He kept walking. This time, he went towards the hospital. It was strange, though. He had just been raped and yet he felt nothing. He thought that he should've felt fear or anxiety or a horrible, dirty feeling. But he didn't feel anything.

"What's wrong with me?" he called into the street.

All he got back was his own voice: _what's wrong with me?_

"You tell me!" Blink shouted back.

_You tell me._

"Fuck you!"

_Fuck you._

"Shut up, you drunk!" someone yelled in a hoity-toity voice from one of the fancy apartment buildings.

Blink lowered his head and kept walking. He rubbed his arm, aching for some junk. A needle-full would be all that he needed to get through the night. But he had to go to the hospital. But he needed the junk. But he had been raped. Funny, that was the least of his concerns. Blink pushed blonde hair from his eyes and kept walking. He had a long way to go to the hospital and a lot of time to think. He paused. He should've gone with the junk.


	6. Mush

Mush hated hospitals. The fluorescent lights burned his eyes and the smell made him want to vomit. The sick people cycling in and out reminded him too much of when he had to spend hours upon hours in the hospital, awaiting for the news that his father was dead. Cancer was what they had said. But Mush had always thought that he had done it to him somehow. Wished it there in his cells. His father wasn't his father when he lay in that bed. Not the man who would spin him like a helicopter or make up stories to tell him in Spanish.

Mush remembered the nights in the bed. The nights where his mother wasn't home. How he would lie into his father like a good boy and once almost felt tiny pulses of pleasure. It was sick and wrong and he knew it. That was why he could never come anymore. Why he couldn't cum either. Why no matter how many guys he lay with, he'd just sigh and sit there and have to explain it without _really_ explaining it.

"This is taking too long," Jack's voice brought him from his thoughts and painfully reminded him of where he was.

"Um…what is? David, Blink or the fact that we have to sit here?" Skittery asked sourly. "I want to get some sleep tonight."

"You're in a chair, so sleep!" Jack snapped at him. "I'm sorry that David's near death is making you uncomfortable!"

Mush sighed. "Guys, let's not let fight."

Jack ignored him and went back to pacing. Mush figured that he loved David more than he had loved Sarah. It was a fairytale almost. He nearly snorted with laughter. Some fairytale. Three people involved in sex and one dies, leaving the two with each other. The one who died being related to one of the remaining two as well. That wasn't a fairytale, that was a V.C. Andrews novel. But, then, who was he to talk?

"Hey," a tired voice rang like music into his ears.

Blink stepped into the waiting room, looking tired and fucked.

"Where have you been?" Jack snapped. "Our friend is dying in there and you sashay in like you're on a fucking runway!"

Blink smiled. "I was getting raped, Jack. Sorry that I couldn't tell the guy who was fucking me without permission to stop so that I could rush to the hospital."

There was an uneasy silence. Mush wanted to stand up and hug him but he just seemed so calm, speaking about being raped as if he were talking about the weather. Either way, it shut Jack up.

"Are you okay?" Snitch asked in a small voice.

"Oh, sure," Blink responded breezily. "I mean, there isn't much that can make me not okay these days. I'm naked on a weekly basis and bound to other men and am masturbation fodder. Oh, and I also looove shooting a needle-ful of junk into my arms!"

He seemed so giddy that Mush questioned his sobriety. He rose and put his arms around Blink's narrow shoulders.

"Thanks," he whispered into his ear so only the two of them could hear it.

Later on, the doctor called Jack into the room to talk to and about David. He was allowed to bring one other person and he chose Mush since he was, apparently, the least offensive. David looked tiny lying on the bed, propped up by pillows. There were dark circles encasing his blue eyes which were shut. He was bone-thing and as pale as the hospital sheets. Jack immediately knelt next to him, grasping his hand as the doctor rambling on about how much danger David had put himself in. The doctor looked a lot like Mush's dad: the caramel skin, the curly hair, the broad shoulders and the narrow hips. In fact, he looked a lot like Mush himself too.

"Young man?" the doctor looked at him as though he were on drugs.

Hell, maybe he should be.


	7. Finale

Jack was being shaken. He didn't want to be shaken. He hated being touched by anyone but David. Not since what happened when he was eleven. The hand grabbing him, touching him, saying that it was normal.

"Mr. Kelly?" a woman's voice.

That was fine. That was good. Women were fine. It was the men…the men…

Jack opened his eyes. He was still in the buzzing hospital waiting room. God, that buzzing. It could drive anyone to insanity. Or an early grave.

"What is it?" he asked, irritable. Then his tone changed to worried. "Is it David? Is he alright?"

She bit her lip. It was a shiny, red color that reflected the lights. Who knew they made lipstick in that radioactive, glowing color.

"What?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry," she lowered her eyes. "We just checked on him and…and…"

Jack fell to his knees. No…it couldn't be. David was dead. He shoved past her and down the hallway. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the waxed linoleum. He shoved through the door. The bed was empty.

"No!" he screamed. "No! David! David!"

"I'm sorry," the nurse repeated. She had obviously followed him. "I just came in and we saw him and…it was his heart. Some shock to his system with it already lowered due to his not eating. I'm so, so sorry. We didn't see it coming."

She kept talking but all Jack heard was 'shock to his system.' He knew what that shock was and how he was going to stop it.

Jack stormed into the studio, hungry for blood. He knew he probably looked crazed. Strangely, at first, no one noticed him. Weasel was too busy making Skittery look less pissed off and more alluring model. For that shoot, Morris was the camera boy. Good. It would be easier. Oscar was lounging on a chair.

"Fucker!" he shouted, pulling the gun out of his coat.

The shoot ceased as those in the studio turned to face him.

"You fucking killed David!" he was screaming now.

Oscar rose to his feet. Jack expected him to smirk and swear, laughing about how his fag boyfriend was dead and it was his fault. It would be so much easier to kill him then. But he didn't. The look on his face was not a smirk as Jack pushed the gun between his eyebrows. It wasn't a sneer either. It was the look of someone who was about to shit their pants.

"Jack, no!" Skittery shouted, still naked and bruised from his shoot, dark circles of eye makeup encased his eyes. He looked almost zombie-like. "If you kill him, it won't do anything. If you kill him, David's still dead and you'll go to jail. Do you want that? So stop dicking around and put the gun down!"

It was like a splash of cold water. He dropped the gun to his side. Oscar smirked.

"I knew you wouldn't have the balls," he sneered.

Skittery walked forward and punched him in the face. "Shut your fucking hole, camera boy."

He turned to Jack and went to speak. "Jack, I know things look shitty right now."

Jack shook his head. "I'm good. I'm fine. I-I gotta go."

Jack sat in the apartment that night. He looked at the pictures on the nightstand. Of him and David and Sarah, all smiling and happy. Before the modeling and the drugs and the death and not eating. Before the nights locked up in passion and heat. Before all that. Jack looked at the gun. He wanted to hurl it out the window. Two of them were dead. One by suicide—accidental overdose his ass—and one by pretty much suicide. Jack's look turned into an intent stare. There was only one thing to do. Let all three go out the same way. What was the phrase? Coming full circle? Yeah that was it. He had to do it. He put the gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

--

Spot sat with Race at the funeral. He didn't deserve to be there. He barely knew Jack and David. Yet, there he was, hand in hand with Race. He remembered their conversation about being jaded. He looked around. Everyone did look pretty jaded. No one cried, not even the tanned curly-haired buff boy with the half-blind kid. He looked like he'd be a crier but he just sat there with the others, staring ahead almost into space. They were a different breed, the models. Even different from Spot himself. They were almost like zombies all the time. The shoots must be killer. He knew he'd have to get out. He'd become just as fucked up as they were. Maybe end up like David, starving himself to death, or Jack, blowing his fucking brains out.

Race squeezed his hand. "You alright?"

Spot smirked. "I'm a model."

**A/N:** The ending was actually darker than I had planned it to be. I never originally intended Jack and David to die. It just…happened. So there ya go.


End file.
